


c'est facile, n'est pas?

by Ealasaid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Fix-It, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternately titled: Treatise on the Mating Habits of Mules</p><p>Prompted by Luchia, who wanted Enjolras's speech of FREEDOM shot down by the captain who just wants to know how much money they had to pay to get the king's fourth son Grantaire back from the clutches of his captors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	c'est facile, n'est pas?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luchia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchia/gifts).



The air was silent.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but I do not know what you are speaking of,” Enjolras said, derailed in the midst of his speech about the freedoms due to the people.

“Then let me rephrase,” the soldier called out—insolently, so Enjolras judged—from the lines facing the barricade. “It is understood by His Majesty the king that you have his son, the Duke of Penthièvre, prisoner. Again we ask, what recompense will satisfy your sense of honor in releasing him?”

“Penthièvre?” Courfeyrac said, audibly enough to be heard by the others perched behind the furniture. “I knew he was in Paris, but nothing else.”

Combeferre seemed as bewildered as the rest. “I only knew he existed,” he said. “I think I saw his portrait printed in a broadsheet once, years ago.”

“It is a lie!” called Marius from his end of the barricade, loudly enough to ring through the streets. “They seek to distract us while they engage in some subterfuge elsewhere!”

“It is you who lie!” called the captain back, equally infuriated. “He was seen here earlier this day, before the barricades were built!”

Confusion swept through the men behind the barricade at Enjolras’s back. They knew of no Duke; they were all but working men and students. Their connections to the nobility were, at best, minor.

“None of us know the gentleman of which you speak,” Enjolras said to the captain, drawing himself up sternly. To think they would waste the day with such words! “For the last time—we will not submit to the rule of the unjust!”

“What unholy plans do you have for the Duke Penthièvre?” cried the captain. “I beseech you, upon His Majesty’s sake, please! Release his son! _Le fil_ Lucas Clement Louis Mathieu Grantaire is the Royal Exchequer, and even clemency from your current actions can be granted in return for his safety!”

Understanding dawned upon those who manned the cause of freedom.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras exclaimed, horrified astonishment embarrassingly plain. “The Duke Penthièvre is _Grantaire_? Surely you jest!”

“So you do know him!” the captain said.

“Grantaire as the Duke—this is surely a mistake,” Combeferre said, aghast, and then “Quickly—someone wake him, and bring him here. We must straighten this out.”

“Surely he did not stay,” Enjolras said in surprise, but not so loud that many heard—Courfeyrac looked at him curiously. It was a moot point anyway. Clearly his friends had known about it, even if Enjolras had not.

The barricade and the street below waited in tense silence as Bossuet disappeared inside the café. Marius and Enjolras kept a watchful eye on the soldiers below to ensure it was not actually a ploy to divert attention, but within minutes Bossuet returned, Grantaire only staggering slightly in front of him. The two scaled the barricade to the top.

“Your Highness!” the captain called with some relief when Grantaire made his appearance on the wall. “You are unharmed!”

“Captain, I am well,” Grantaire said without a trace of a slur, and confirmed the charge. Enjolras thought he felt his heart stop as all activity on and behind the barricade stilled for one sharp moment at the admission. “What is the trouble?”

“My lord, the king is prepared to ransom you,” declared the captain. “Your captors have refused to negotiate!”

Grantaire looked to Bossuet at his side, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac to the other; and lastly to Enjolras, who restrained himself from showing the shock of the betrayal. Whatever was on his face instead caused the duke to flinch, and Enjolras was only slightly ashamed of it as he turned away.

“There is a misunderstanding here,” Grantaire said grandly instead, tone familiar with acerbic humor. “These men are not my captors, they are friends of mine. I am here of my own will.”

The men in the street were muttering again. Enjolras noted that the soldiers and the captain did not seem surprised—perhaps resigned?

“Are you confessing to treason, my lord?” the captain asked sternly.

“Of course I’m not confessing to treason,” Grantaire replied lightly. “I am merely spending my time here, at the café. They have excellent pie.” The comment startled a few snickers from the regulars.

“Then we must ask you for your safety to withdraw,” the captain said firmly. “Your father wishes you back at the palace; there are matters to discuss.”

“You will have to convey my apologies to the king,” said Grantaire carelessly. “I have no intention of leaving until I’ve managed to finish the nap my friend Bossuet has so rudely wakened me from.”

“But my lord—you cannot stay!”

“Good luck!” Grantaire shouted, and—Enjolras could hardly believe the man’s complete disregard— _waved_ before turning and ducking down below the edge.

“Stay ready!” Enjolras shouted, prepared for the soldiers to come boiling up, but they made no effort to attack. Instead, as Enjolras watched, the captain gave orders to some of the other officers, the effect of which was that within five minutes the men had retreated out of firing distance and reestablished the lines in a more relaxed formation.

“Are they standing down?” Marius inquired incredulously.

“Of course they are,” the duke said coolly. “They can’t attack you while I’m still here and the captain is well aware of that fact.”

“Then you should probably leave us now so that we can get back to business,” Enjolras said scornfully, angry that Grantaire was mucking things up _again_. “Didn’t I already tell you we don’t want someone so unworthy to join our enterprise? It’s bad enough that you don’t believe in our cause—but to relieve us of our rebellion, merely by your presence? You are no friend to us!”

Grantaire’s face was one of pain, but it resolved quickly to anger and Enjolras was glad; he did not like the ill feelings the duke’s hurt caused in him. “I am not a friend because I do not want you to die?” the duke cried. “Well enough! I have been here for months with none the wiser to my background. I did not think it would become an issue now, and I certainly did not plan to rob you of your ‘glory’ at the barricades—but as it stands, so long as they do not fire upon you, I cannot say I regret it.”

“Enough,” interjected Combeferre sternly, apparently ignoring Grantaire’s status of peerage. “This bickering gets us nowhere.” He threw a look laden with meaning to the men milling behind the barricade. “Or at the least—let us discuss it elsewhere.”

“It is not my concern what he has to say,” Enjolras said sharply, turning back to face the encampment of soldiers. “Speak to him what you will—I have nothing I have not already spoken.”

Someone sighed with enough theatrics that most likely everyone heard it, but the next things to ear were the sounds of Combeferre directing the duke back into the café and the careful steps of three or four people leaving the summit of the furniture while Enjolras resolutely stayed and stewed.

To think—the people arisen, the cause of Enjolras and _les amis_ finally shining for all to see—and their worthy labor stripped from them! The temporary respite from the horrors of battle, promised by Grant—the duke’s presence was a curse; the tension stretched like a wire. And the temptation it could offer—no. It would be best if the duke simply left. Enjolras could not deny he had thrilled to think that the man had left earlier, certain that he at least would survive—though he was the least of them, such cynicism never stemmed—and perhaps he would have lamented their fall, should they have fallen, and learned the true worthiness of their cause—and when they had won, so too would Grantaire have been won over—

But it was all extremely muddled, and Enjolras could not be certain of the righteousness of his anger while that flame of the thought of Grantaire, brilliant and heated, lit him from inside. And so it was that he stood fiercely at the height of the barricade and glowered.

This was how Courfeyrac found him, when the other men of the barricade had fallen idle to chat amongst themselves.

“This serves no purpose,” he said sternly in greeting. “To so disdain Grantaire—he is not another king who would steal the breath from our bodies were it worth money. Did we not discuss the possibilities of the fabled Duke of Penthièvre, rumored to sympathize with the people?”

“And yet he never did,” Enjolras countered swiftly. “They were but rumors and tangential stories of lightened duties for those in Penthièvre; nothing more.”

“And is he not still Grantaire, our friend?” demanded Courfeyrac sharply in turn. He lowered his voice. “You know he may not serve our cause as you deem fit, but you cannot deny his loyalty to us—and you.”

“Loyalty that ill serves us now,” Enjolras said curtly.

“That is only how it seems, so at odds are his goals to yours,” Courfeyrac declared. “Truly Enjolras—you know he means no harm. And besides—you do not think well—he is _a duke_. The things we could accomplish with the ear of a duke! And one in control of Frances finances, as well,” he added.

“And whose idea was that?” Enjolras asked. “Combeferre’s? Feuilly’s? Has Jehan convinced the duke to give our ideas another chance, when he has joined our company for over a year?”

“It was Grantaire’s,” Courfeyrac said simply. “He has not detailed how such a thing may play out, though Combeferre may have coaxed him into discussion. You should join with us.”

Enjolras thought for a moment. He thought little other than violent resistance would be successful in persuading the monarchy of the righteousness of the people’s position at this point, and that to discuss alternatives would be naught but a waste of time—but Courfeyrac seemed certain of his words, and his persistence in dispensing with the duke’s title indicated that he, at least, still trusted the man. Perhaps there was merit to it.

(And perhaps Enjolras, weak man that he was, hoped for some sort of reconciliation. It was foolish and naïve, but he could not help but hope.)

 “Very well,” he said grudgingly, and to Marius and Feuilly both he handed over command of the wall to follow Courfeyrac carefully down the slope and into the café.

The duke sat at the table in the corner overlooked by the builders of the barricade where he had, presumably, been sleeping earlier. He looked as disheveled as ever, hardly fit to command so weighty a title as Penthièvre. The wariness of outside had relaxed to his usual attitude of casual opposition, engaged as he was in low conversation with Combeferre.

 This changed once Courfeyrac and Enjolras were noticed—the duke shied back slightly as his face closed off, stiffening to rigidly proper posture that every one of the students recognized as proper etiquette training—training never employed by the student Grantaire.

“Ah, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, as calm as though it were just another day. “We were just talking, Grantaire and I.”

“And what did _le Fil_ say?” Enjolras asked coolly.

“Nothing that deserves your attention, O Apollo,” the duke replied, familiar tone jarring with the alien posture. “You have a barricade to man, yes? It will flounder in the absence of your absolute being, you should return to it before the earth crumbles beneath our feet.”

“Courfeyrac indicated it would be favorable to speak with you,” Enjolras sniped, and realized that Courfeyrac had actually disappeared. He glanced at Combeferre. “Has the duke agreed to leave?”

“And you thought he would see reason,” the duke said to Combeferre, before leaning back in his seat. “Hah! He is a creature of the unconditional—you think I can persuade him otherwise?”

“I _think_ ,” Combeferre said sternly, “that you are both being asinine.”

“Thank you for your contribution,” the duke said.

“As Grantaire was telling me,” Combeferre went on to Enjolras, “he would much prefer we did not break the law as egregiously as we have—”

“—because you will DIE,” the duke interjected.

“—and has an alternative route for us to pursue—should we chose to consider it,” Combeferre finished, overriding the duke’s comment with ease of long practice.

“What other route do we need?” inquired Enjolras ruthlessly. It was impossible—being so at odds was the only way, the familiar way; but the pain, Grantaire’s pain as his face closed like a shuttered window, it _hurt_ for no reason.

“The captain’s runner will return with orders soon,” Grantaire said shortly. “Likely, it will be for me to leave. I could bluff the captain, but I cannot disobey the king without consequences—doubtless they will assess the situation and determine the most effective way to break through to seize me when I refuse.”

“So you will take our part? And fight for the people?” Enjolras asked quickly.

“No,” said the duke, “and though I disagree with my family on many things—I will not commit treason. But there is another option,” he added with some thoughtfulness, the wary tenseness returning. “It would be easy for me to, say, appoint another advisor, someone to assist in the official duties demanded of me. Such a person would have access to the court, and the king’s advisers—not to mention the king, on occasion.”

“And what is the use of that?” Enjolras demanded. “Why did you not offer this before? Is this a bone you would throw to defend the establishment, so that we can sit at your feet as lapdogs?”

“If you were a lapdog you would be on my lap,” Grantaire pointed out with a ghost of a smile, but continued before Enjolras could retort. “I offer it now because it wasn’t but an hour ago you did not know my position. Would you have believed that the drunken cynic in the corner was capable of influencing the government? You would have laughed in my face! And in any case,” he finished, more seriously, “I treasured your company too much to waste on Penthièvre.”

“We would never have rejected you,” Combeferre said, voice filled with reproach. “Are we not friends?”

Grantaire sighed. “Whether we are friends or not, I could hardly have asked you to stand against him,” he said, nodding to Enjolras. “You see how he acts now—do you think it would be different another time?”

Combeferre frowned, looking thoughtfully at Enjolras; Enjolras ignored it in favor of saying “Because obviously you are _not to be trusted_. You drink to excess and get in brawls, you refuse to see anything worthier than your own life, you—” he broke off, wind whooshing out of his lungs as Combeferre planted an elbow between his ribs.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said calmly to the duke. “Clearly, Enjolras is your best option for an advisor—I assume he can appoint his own staff?”

“Oh, of course,” the duke said after a short glance at Enjolras, who was wheezing in the most undignified manner. “Do you think he has anyone in mind?”

“Courfeyrac and myself,” Combeferre said promptly, and Enjolras wanted to punch him but he could still barely speak, and Grantaire sounded so relieved when he said “So it’s settled” and Enjolras could have murdered him.

“No,” he finally managed to gasp out. “Our cause! We cannot—”

“Let’s go speak with the others and see what they have to say,” Combeferre said instantly. “You stay here—I’ll check around. Not that I do not trust you, it is only Enjolras is confused and thinks you are egregiously dishonest,” he said quickly to the duke, and darted out of the café before Enjolras could snatch him to stay in place—and so Enjolras was the only one who could stay to guard the duke from leaving considering he was not even restrained—

“Good God, why do I even care?” Enjolras snarled out loud. “I _want_ you to leave. It does not matter if you are unbound!”

“Oh of course,” the duke said graciously and completely insincerely. “The bonds of friendship are things I hold less precious than gold; good literature and good wine is all I need in this life.”

“You have certainly presented that image with your nights here,” Enjolras told him.

The duke deliberately relaxed his posture and leaned back, face... unreadable. Enjolras found it eerie—he had never seen the man look so blank. But he noticed, too, that despite the nonchalance Grantaire presented, he was white knuckled at the hands where they were clasped with each other and there was a faint tremble at the ends of his unruly hair.

“I suppose you would consider so,” said he, softly, and very cold. “And would you believe me if I gave you my oath that it was otherwise?”

Enjolras did not like this new man. He was not rough and loud, as Grantaire was, nor did he smile nor gesture to emphasize. He was not a leader. And yet there was a certain edge to him that the Grantaire Enjolras knew did not show, something sharp and dangerous and stubborn that was far too intriguing.

“Perhaps,” he replied after a moment. “If it were true and sincere.”

“Then I so swear—” and it was Grantaire again, the cold man of before a lie, his eyes now burning with a fervency Enjolras had never seen in him even when he had looked for it in the nights they came together at the café “—that I came not only for the literature and wine, but for my friends—and you. And I would not see you die for a cause that would be better served by you remaining alive.”

Enjolras turned from the weight of the conviction. He did not know what he expected, but that—it stole the breath from his mouth and left him with no words to denounce it.

Combeferre came in then, trailed by Jehan, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac.

“We have gone amongst the men and taken a vote,” Combeferre reported. “Most see Grantaire’s proposition as sound.”

“A few would rather fight,” Feuilly said grimly, “but we will not let them if we do this.”

“ _How_ are we going to do this?” Enjolras asked bitingly, unable to keep the anger out of his voice as he noticed Grantaire’s relief.

“Well,” Grantaire said, ignoring it magnificently, “I do have an idea…”

The spectacle that followed as the afternoon marched on was a travesty in Enjolras’s mind. Combeferre and he returned to the top of the wall with Grantaire (now bound) in tow and began to negotiate with the captain for the release of the duke, whom they claimed to have taken captive once his real identity had been discovered. As they bargained for clemency, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and Gavroche quietly sent men from the barricades—“the less there are to pardon, the more likely pardons will be given,” Grantaire had reasoned. “If it is but a few malcontents, the king will not rouse himself overly much.”

The worst part of it all was that _it worked_. Within less than an hour’s time Grantaire was shaking off his bonds in the company of the captain and Combeferre and Enjolras , along with the handful of people left, were escorted away from the Musain to one of the temporary bases for the police, where they were set free with an admonishment not to get caught up in the fracas of young fools.

Enjolras had almost ground his teeth to dust from repressing his urge to rant; their group’s clemency was contingent on cooperation, and so Enjolras did not fight back or return the warnings against revolution with a treatise on the righteousness of the just.

“It remains to be seen if Grantaire will keep his word,” Enjolras spat finally as a last, futile gesture as he and Combeferre and Marius (who had stayed to the last, strangely silent) made their way to Combeferre’s apartment, the closest at hand. Enjolras knew Grantaire would—he did not know why, but he trusted the man, and it angered him.

“Doubtless he will send for you tomorrow, then,” Combeferre said gently.

The morrow came with the news that the rebellion had been beaten down. The barricades were dismantled and the bodies carried away, and Enjolras could have raged with all the bitterness in him save that he could not tell if it was his fury that their chance to die for such a cause had been stolen or if it was the horrific relief that his friends had not fallen that had him in tears, furiously mute in the corner of Combeferre’s rooms. (And Grantaire did not come.) Later in the day Courfeyrac found the three of them and in the evening Joly and Bossuet and Jehan came with food and the news that the streets were rife with tales of how the Duke of Penthièvre had supported the brief rebellion and had led an entire barricade of men out beneath the noses of the king’s men. (But Grantaire did not come.) Gavroche came even later, to add that court gossips were speculating about Penthièvre’s silence about rumors, and at one point Marius disappeared entirely. Somberly they kept awake, speaking little, late into the night, and the duke whose life they had ransomed for their own did not come.

The next morning took on a lighter tone. They were alive—their spirits revived. Combeferre, after the noisy breakfast, complained about overcrowding and they separated in twos and threes. Enjolras was one of the last to go, quietly ducking out when no one was looking, and marched rigidly home to his own set of rooms. He did not fault the others for their exuberance, but he did not share it either. Guilt gnawed at him for failing the other barricades. Had he not called them to action, roused them to see that justice would be done? And yet he had betrayed them, had not fought and bled as they had. He had been convinced into betraying them for a lie, a promise already broken, and it was like a layer of ash in his mouth that choked him when he sought to breathe.

Enjolras had not been twenty minutes in his rooms on the small cobbled street his apartment was situated at when there was a knocking at the door and Enjolras opened it to find Grantaire at his threshold.

It was undoubtedly Grantaire, in his raggedly neat student attire, and he came in without asking, sweeping past Enjolras as he had on every occasion he’d visited before. Enjolras noticed there was no one else waiting and shut the door slowly while Grantaire watched him.

The edge of the other Grantaire was present as well, the hard stillness of two days prior. “I could not come sooner,” he said calmly enough, “but I am here now, to fulfill my promise.”

“I think now I should never have accepted it,” Enjolras said quietly.

The duke did not move.

“They are all dead,” Enjolras continued. “Dead at my hand—and I did not even have the decency to die with them.”

Grantaire blinked at him. “Even for you that is ridiculous,” he said.

Enjolras swung at him and landed it satisfyingly, knocking Grantaire back with a sharp snap. Grantaire staggered back and dodged the next blow, but Enjolras managed to catch him and throw him against the wall.

“They died for my cause,” Enjolras snarled, inches from the bruise starting to blossom across Grantaire’s pale skin. “My cause! And what for? So that I could win your favor?”

Grantaire did not look away. “No,” he said firmly despite Enjolras’s hands on his throat, “it was so you could live and keep your cause alive. It is easy to die in this world, for ideals or for ill-fortune. This rebellion would not have been remembered in two years’ time, but _you_ can _make them remember_.”

“It doesn’t change that their deaths are on my hands!” Enjolras shouted, nearly nose to nose.

“They made their choices!” Grantaire snapped back. “Not you! They believed in what you said, and they chose to act on it. Now you have a chance to get what they wanted—and more, if you are clever enough. Will you throw that away?”

Enjolras was silent. “No,” he said finally. He was very tired of it all. He let Grantaire go, but did not step away.

“Then you should begin,” Grantaire said softly, and reached out to lay a hand gently on Enjolras’s cheek. There was no cynicism now, no coldness, but a promise—a promise of something more. It warmed him, and perhaps…

“Do you permit?...” Enjolras asked, raising a hand to mirror the gesture. Grantaire nodded; his jaw was rough with stubble, but warm and alive.

“Fine,” Enjolras said, closed his eyes, and tipped forward until his brow rested against Grantaire’s. Together, they shared the same breath in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> The king's fourth son, whose titles I stole for Grantaire, [actually existed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Charles,_Duke_of_Penthi%C3%A8vre), but he also died at the age of eight.
> 
> Thanks to my beta Eirik, fabulous as ever, and Lu's reverse prompt thing. You guys put up with so much <3 <3 <3


End file.
